


Found

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Angery Jaskier, Angst, Apologies, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood, Caretaking, Delirium, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escape, Fever, Fluff, GDI Geralt, Gen, Geralt says I'm Sorry, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, More fever induced poetry because bard, Pneumonia, Post 01.06, Reunions, Sickfic, Trust Issues, Yennefer is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23169286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Jaskier has no one to rely on but himself when he's held captive and interrogated on Geralt's whereabouts. He doesn't know, of course.That doesn't stop them.But all's well that ends well. If Geralt can learn some hard lessons.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 72
Kudos: 470





	1. Chapter 1

It was raining again.

_Drip._

There was a leak.

_Drip._

Painfully, the bard cracked bruised, blacked eyes open. Was met with pitch dark damp.

_Drip._

He'd been here so long he'd lost track of the days, left with no way to mark time but his own.

_Drip._

"...O' valley of plenty…"

"Shut your fool mouth!"

The sharp kick to his belly was undeserved, he felt. Was sure of it, even as he faded away.

_Drip._

They'd caught him unawares, drunk in a small town inn for the sixth month in a row, which he supposed only highlighted how much of a burden he actually was. 

How useless.

Copper bloomed over his silver tongue, heady alloy triggered by a punch in the mouth he wholly earned. He supposed he'd earned the second one too, and the third. And by then, he'd been too muddled to speak full sentences, spitting out blood and expletives both. Some creative insults he hoped he'd remember.

He could next shout them at Geralt. 

The soldiers hauled him kicking and struggling through the narrow streets and it wasn't until one last ringing blow that he lost consciousness. 

"I've tried to be kind." Jaskier laughed briefly, coughing on an iron inhalation, turned his aching head and hacked uselessly. Giggled deliriously. 

Reeled painfully when cracked again, hard in the face.

"You've r'r'ruin'd me f'the stage." 

"You have control in the answers we want."

"You chose wr'wrong." Limp, Jaskier's head lolled and he peered at his captors through matted hair, vibrant blue eye barely visible between the strands. "L'never tell you anythin'." Two guards stepped forward and the bard tried hard not to flinch. 

Tried so hard not to scream. 

They gave up on him and he was nothing without answers. Less than nothing. Left to rot in the basement of this place.

Cold. Frozen with only the threadbare remains of once splendid clothes wrapped around him in tatters. Skin slick with blood from wounds that refused to heal. In the dark of his lonely cell he worked slowly, methodically, saving up the strength he still had left. He'd found something precious and in his desperation, came up with a plan. 

Jaskier had been dozing when another prisoner was unceremoniously tossed into his small space and he reflexively flinched awake, grip tightening on his last salvation. The body slammed against the bars and Jaskier gasped when that all too familiar growl punched all the air from his aching lungs.

_No._

The white wolf paced like a caged animal, testing the bars and cursing under his breath. It was difficult to stay still in the face of his violence but Jaskier had never feared him before.

And he refused to fear him now.

He cleared his raw throat and forced himself up, up, up, body a bag of broken twigs. Nonchalantly, he reclined against the frozen wall, tilted his chin in a challenge. 

As if this was merely a summer sabbatical.

"Ah. Fancy meeting you here." Jaskier took pleasure in watching him jump and welcomed the baleful stare, met it. As ridiculous as it seemed, this was his arena. His staked claim. His dingy, and dark, and dank domain. Silence stretched, thin and taut between them, uneasy in a way it never had been before.

"Did you tell them?" The anger suddenly made too much sense. 

A scoff.

"What? That we parted ways on a mountain I don't even know how long ago now and I haven't seen you since?" Knees drawn up, Jaskier's chains slid together with a heavy iron rasp when he wrapped his arms around them. Silence. Incredulous. The lack of trust disarmed him and stole his bravado, stung worse than even his deepest wounds. Did he really think so little of him? "Of course not. I told them nothing, Geralt."

"No songs?"

"No." Gods be damned, he wouldn't mourn this fool, even as his eyes burned. "No songs."

"Hm." 

Geralt turned from the bard, pointedly staring at the nothingness outside the cell. Now that he wasn't so distracted he could smell the fear, the pain, the blood. 

The salt of his sorrow.

With his witcher senses he could see the bruises in the low light. Blooms of cemetery flowers in the reek of dungeon cells. Black streaks of what he could only imagine were truly rust. Dark against pale, pale skin. Everywhere he could see.

Before he could speak, the guards returned, slamming heavy clubs into the bars. He didn't back away. 

"What is it you want?" The low rumble unnerved them noticeably but still they mocked. They had to know he would give up nothing. How they'd even caught him was a mystery Jaskier had yet to think through. Geralt had made it very clear he didn't look for him.

"Enjoy your reunion." The implications were clear and Jaskier looked away, willed his ears to stop hearing.

"Yeah! And then we'll cut you into pieces and sell them to the highest bidder." More jokes, insults, slamming the bars, assaulting Jaskier's senses until he'd all but withdrawn into himself to escape. Their guffawing laughter faded down the hall, bouncing infinitely from surface to surface. Jaskier took a deep shuddering breath. Another. Until he was calm enough to think. Geralt hadn't moved. Was still standing where they'd left him, head cocked to one side as if listening to something only he could hear.

Now that they had Geralt there was no more time left. Jaskier had been plotting long after time stopped moving forward, running through the steps in his head each unending night since they began leaving him alone. Brutish though they may be, they were organized enough to have a changing of the guard and Jaskier memorized the different men and their steps, measuring the timing of their paths using beats from familiar songs he'd been singing all his life.

Stealthy, Jaskier slipped heavy manacles from tired wrists and used the damp rock to pull himself upright. Through blurred vision he could see Geralt staring, the question in his eyes damning and were Jaskier a stronger man, he'd have struck him then and there. Breaking his hand on that smug face would almost be worth it. What business did Geralt have passing judgment from so high upon his horse?

"What are you--"

"Shh!" Jaskier pressed his hands and ear to the stone, counted measures with a gently tapping fingertip. Made his move and slipped the sharpened bit of horseshoe nail into the crude lock. "Come." He muffled the click with his palms, slipped through a gap no wider than a hairsbreadth he'd become so thin, and took off along the wall on silent cat's paws. No boots, Geralt noticed. Why he was drawn to that detail he didn't have time to parse.

"What?"

"Now. Or stay, if their company is so preferred over mine. 

With his ear to the ground again, eyes pressed tight and closed, Jaskier huffed out a refrain, staggering to his feet when he reached the end of his count and grabbing Geralt's sleeve. He tugged, the witcher was reluctant, but surely he could smell the clean air down this tunnel, the horses? Hear the creak of the delivery cart as it pulled up to the dungeon gate? Jaskier had spent long days constructing a map of this place, the scuff of a hard sole the only indication of lefts and rights. He could scent the freshness on their uniforms when they came from a certain direction. The earthy smell that he'd only ever associated with Roach. 

Heavy steps. A seam in the wall no thicker than the width of his hand and he pressed Geralt into it. Held his breath. Recited another verse through the pounding of his head. 

"He's gone. Lazy lout only ever does one pass through here." Were it not for the witcher's enhanced hearing he'd never have caught it, a fact Jaskier used to his advantage. "This way." Giddy, the bard let himself chance to hope. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a glimpse of the sun and now it's setting rays cast long shadows down the tunnel. The last delivery of the day.

His grin fell.

There were too many shadows. His grip on his makeshift lock pick tightened. 

"I won't be caught again." Geralt could smell his rising panic, hear the frantic thudding of a heart slamming against confining walls. "I won't. _I won't_." A large hand settled on his heaving back and he looked up into a stern face. Of course he'd disappointed him. Taking a calming breath, Jaskier crept forward, using the rough hewn edges of this access tunnel to his advantage. He was silent as a mouse, despite Geralt always yelling about the contrary. Closer and he could make out five men. Five. Three with their backs to him. If he could catch them unawares--

The witcher took off like a bolt from a crossbow, a black blur of leather and fists, and Jaskier followed suit, biting down hard on the hand that grabbed him and tasting only the sour hide of a filthy glove.

"Damn it, you wretch!" The guard cuffed him soundly in the head more than once, but Jaskier held on, gripped the nail in his fist and slammed it into the man's soft parts. Blood gushed, hot and thick and fast, over his skin, down his ruined doublet, and Jaskier felt more than heard the last bubbling expulsion of breath. Dead. Throat torn out. He stared, numb, yelping when Geralt lifted him bodily onto the back of the big draft horse and commanded he hold on.

Cold, sharp wind on his grimy face dried the tears there. 

And he didn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

Blue.

The girl liked blue.

Geralt tested the quality of material, tugged on the stitching and placed the traveling cloak back in the vendor's hands.

"Not to your liking, Master Witcher, sir?" The old weaver woman chuckled. "Difficult to find the perfect gift, is it not?" Gently, her hand lit on his shoulder, the weight of it no more than a butterfly. "I've got more wares. Come on, now." She disappeared into the shop, beckoning, but he was struck still by the lack of fear. 

Perhaps Jask--

Geralt growled at the thought that the fool bard was anything but trouble and found himself asking after him anyway as he collected his wits back together enough to follow. 

"A musician."

"Aye?"

"Has one. Passed through here?" Worker's hands lifted something soft, something much more delicate than he'd even thought of purchasing. It was a lovely strawflower blue. 

"You'll have to be more specific, dear. Here, look at this." It was warm threaded through his fingers, smooth like corn silk and satin. Finely made. Too fine for the road. He knew this. He tugged his cowl low over his face; he was supposed to be keeping a low profile and he felt naked without his swords. Just a bit of coin his leather pouch. He had lingered too long already.

It was only supposed to be a traveling cloak. 

"Witcher, dear?" She pressed, worried. "You're friend?"

"Not a friend." The words were bitter on his tongue and heavy. 

When the soldiers exploded into the shop the woman screamed, wood splintered, cloth tore, and he only killed three before he was buried beneath the rest of them, foaming at the mouth like the rabid wolf he was and when one wild yellow eye met the weaver's frozen stare he saw the fear there. Finally. Familiar and comfortable and maddening and lamentable. 

He knew what to do with that.

He was better than this.

Worse than this.

Only this.

The last thing he saw before a sharp smell rendered him senseless was the sky blue scarf.

Ground into the dirt, ravaged and bloody.

Cornflower.

The girl liked blue.

Never had anything been more blue than the pair of eyes burning an icy path through Geralt's body right now. He hid the bald surprise and swarm of confusing feelings with anger and accusation and saw each well aimed attack land precisely where he aimed. 

The recoil was new.

As were the bard's seemingly newfound skills. Geralt followed closely in the dark. In the dim, listening to him count beats under his breath.

And now they were together again on the same horse, galloping for their lives through dense forest and it was almost like it was before. But for the smell of human blood, the stiff line of the body in front of him, the smell of pain, hurt, fear, _run_ filling his nose.

Jaskier pulled up on the reins, rearing the horse and all but falling off in a messy dismount that left him panting at the roots of a giant pine. Geralt removed the tack, smacked the beast hard on the flank and watched it disappear from sight. He didn't know quite why he had the bard's throat in his hand and his narrow back pressed into the unforgiving bark but he couldn't let go. Not even when Jaskier, clawing madly at his wrist, kicked and struggled uselessly. 

"What's wrong with you?" Why was he shouting? To his credit, Jaskier didn't flinch and bared his teeth in the crimson mockery of a grin. 

"Wha's wrong with _you_?" He matched him in volume, if not clarity with the way his words slurred together. 

"How was I found if not for you and your _babble_?" This wasn't how this was supposed to go. 

"Ge'your damn han's off me, witcher!" Released, Jaskier massaged the bruise forming around his throat, gasping, sweating. He dragged the back of one hand across his forehead, smearing a line of red over his brow. Geralt stepped back, panting, running eyes over the body trembling in front of him. But not because of him. "I tol'em nothing. Nothing!" Jaskier braced himself on the tree, knees almost buckling beneath him. "Asif, as if I'd wan'to follow you. You, you made it very clear your feelings on tha'subject." He groaned, pained and woozy, blinking fast and paling under the bruises and welts. Geralt felt his stomach twist. 

This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

"Jaskier--" what was he supposed to say now? 

"Waz'ere always three of you?" He staggered, bare feet twisting up together as he tried to keep his balance and failed. Blue eyes rolled up under fluttering lashes and he crumpled like a ragdoll, limbs akimbo in the needles. 

Geralt had not looked for him.

Had not even known.

Jaskier found himself biting back a sob even as the witcher's fingers tightened around his windpipe. 

This he knew and still. To hear again and again. To be reminded that his friend--

No. Not his friend. Had never been. 

It was all so much and Jaskier just wanted it to be on his way, to put more distance between himself and this whole messy affair. 

Except he could barely stand. Or breathe. Or hear through the pounding of drums in his head. He _hurt_ , sharply from top to toes, swallowed blood against an aching throat and gave back as good as he got when Geralt began tearing into him and after he let him go. His tongue felt clumsy in a mouth that tasted of copper and there wasn't enough room in his body to hold the breath he so desperately tried to take. He stumbled when the world shifted whole degrees, hot and numb, could scarcely see Geralt well enough to shout at him anymore. 

And oh, how he wanted to shout at the unfairness of it all.

But the air was gone and his vision black and the bastard didn't even reach out to slow his descent.

Geralt nudged the bard with the toe of his boot before dropping to his knees beside him. The human did not look well, more bruise and spilt blood than bard, and Geralt tugged his shoulders into his lap.

Shadows like kohl rimmed dark lashes against snow white skin. How long did he spend underground in that stinking place? Something cold swirled in his gut, an emotion he didn't care to examine at this time. Of course Jaskier told them nothing. Of course. For as bawdy and blithe as he seemed, was, Geralt knew the bard was loyal as they came. Would continue to be so even after he'd pushed him so far away.

And he hadn't heard a whisper of his captivity.

And he hated the part of him that whispered in the back of his mind: "would you have come for him anyway?" Because he didn't know. 

But he had him here now.

"Jaskier." His cheek was blazing under his hand where he patted it none too kindly and his head lolled on his thigh. "Jaskier." Rewarded with a sliver of blue, then nothing. 

The girl liked blue.

There was no safe way to hold him. Nowhere to touch him that wouldn't cause more pain. Ribs gave under questing fingers and Jaskier grunted low but otherwise didn't move. 

"Fuck." He wasn't made for this. For _gentle _. For _soft_. For. __

___Tame_._ _

__He tried to be mindful when he gathered Jaskier close and tried to ignore how thin and fragile he felt, even as dead weight, but he was nothing in his arms and for one hysterical moment the witcher thought him dead. Listening, Geralt closed his eyes until he could make out the slow beat and hitched his burden higher, tucking Jaskier's hot, hot face into his neck where he could feel each uneven exhale._ _

__They had far to go._ _


	3. Chapter 3

"Speak, Parrot, I pra'you…" Jaskier coughed weakly after his cryptic verse, a wet crackle Geralt could feel through his back where he held him. It was the first the bard had spoken in almost half a day, whispery and warm, against the skin of Geralt's throat. 

"What's that, Jaskier?" He paused his distance eating pace and knelt in the moss, drawing the slight body far enough away to look him in the face. Jaskier shivered from cold when separated from Geralt, opening his eyes long enough for the witcher to see unfocused, searching confusion. 

"Full curtesly th'they say." Something like a laugh passed over lips chapped with fever and transformed into breathless hacking that shook him so hard Geralt feared he might fall in half. A smile, misplaced, made him ache deep. 

"Hush, Jaskier." Carefully, Geralt brushed the backs of his fingers over the hectic flush splashed high over his cheek. He needed water, the heat of his fever scorching through his clothes. "There are no courtly ladies to woo here." For scarcely a moment, clarity and recognition shone bright in fractured blue before disappearing beneath bruised lids.

"Parrot is'a goodly bird, a pretty popinjay."

"Geralt!" 

"Easy, Ciri." The young girl slowed when she saw the burden the witcher bore. 

"What happened to him?" Geralt strode past her, ducking into the stone ruins they'd taken shelter in while he was supposed to be resupplying and purchasing appropriate travel clothes for the girl. "You were gone for a long time, Geralt." She helped him settle the bard on her bed roll, quick eyes taking in every inch of him and softening with sympathy. 

"I was waylaid." Where to start? 

"I know him." Ciri brushed Jaskier's bangs off his forehead. "He played at parties quite a few times." She said in answer to Geralt's surprise. "What happened?"

"An interrogation. I need cloths and water. To know what we're dealing with." She went to fetch them and he could hear her whispering to Roach while he began stripping away the filthy remnants of his clothes. The more he uncovered the angrier he became. There wasn't an inch of skin unmarked. It was no wonder he'd fallen so ill. 

"I warmed the water with a hot stone." Ciri knelt beside them with a wooden bowl, taking up a soft cloth and swiping the grime from Jaskier's face and neck. They worked in silence save for the bard's gasping. 

"Some of these wounds will need stitching." Traveling had not been kind to him and the deeper lashes oozed sluggishly. "The bruises and cracked ribs will heal on their own, but he will be sore…" Geralt trailed off, attention caught by the dark shadow spread over his flank like ink spilled on parchment. 

"What's wrong?" Pausing, Ciri looked up, concerned and worried though she was practiced at hiding both.

"He's bleeding. Inside." He ran a calloused hand as gently as he was capable over the mottled skin. "I'll be back, I don't have what he needs but it's common." She nodded, serious. "Stay with him." Geralt lingered one heartbeat more, the tight feeling in his body winding tighter. There was real danger here. That Jaskier--

When he hadn't figured out what even to say to him.

Night was falling quickly and despite his witcher stamina, Geralt was tiring. He traveled hard to get back to Ciri and the relative safety of their hiding place and each plant seemed determined to mock him with mimicry. Making a wide circle around the encampment, Geralt picked those herbs that would be helpful later, intending to dry them, and examined each shaded leaf for the one Jaskier needed until finally, a small cluster. Enough for now.

Ciri stoked the fire, adding a few more logs, before returning to Jaskier's side. Cleaned up, he cut a much thinner figure than she remembered and the jut of his ribs stood out like handles of bone. She remembered his voice, happier times for the pair of them it would seem, and hummed snippets of the songs she could recall, laying a cool cloth over his eyes in an attempt to quell the fever. Even she knew it was much too high. Burning. Blazing. Consuming him from the inside out and leaving this hollow, trembling shell in its wake.

She held his chilled hand and stroked her thumb over the delicate bones in his fingers in an attempt to share some of her own warmth. It was a small mercy his captors didn't break them. He really had beautiful hands and a talent to go along with them. A small twitch, like the flutter of a bird's wing, and Ciri felt him squeeze loosely back.

"With weight whereof in sea of d'deep despair." It was so soft Ciri could barely make out his slurred words, cadence broken by shuddering breaths taken between and she leaned closer, gripped his hand tighter as if to say _I'm here._ "M'sinking soul is now s'sore opressed." A bead of water slipped down from the compress to a temple already dark with sweat followed by another, and another, and Jaskier's chest heaved with a painful sob, mouth twisted up. "I cry 'sustain me lord, I pray.'" 

"Shh, shhh." Alarmed, she swept the tears away, doing her best to soothe, to comfort. "It's alright, we're here, we're here, shh." He gentled under her touch with one last verse carried on a congested sigh.

"Take the endless number of my sins away."

It was difficult for Geralt to keep his hands steady as he ground the shepherd's purse into a smooth paste. He was tired, that's all. After he dealt with the bleeding inside, he could attend to the wounds on the surface. Ciri was speaking quietly to a shivering Jaskier all wrapped up in blankets, wiping down his face. It was impossible to know how much blood the bard had lost, but his chilled fingers and pale face were never good signs. Adding water to the small pot he left it to boil.

"He wrote the songs." She didn't look up at him but clarified. "About you. About witchers." 

"Yes."

"You weren't so frightening then." He knew. Gods knew Jaskier never let him forget it when they traveled together. "So what happened?" Piercing blue met haunted yellow. "Why didn't you help him?"

"I didn't know." But if he had listened to the world around him, would he have heard? It was easy to tell himself that traveling as he'd done with Ciri through the wood they seldom came upon travelers. She didn't seem convinced. 

"You know everything. You know things before they happen sometimes." The accusation was clear, the anger in her eyes sharp. The Lion Cub of Cintra had claimed her charge. 

"I said things I regret. That's why we parted. Because I blamed him for circumstances out of his control." She waited, and Geralt felt chastised. "I was angry. I'm not angry anymore." The princess leaned against his knee; he wasn't forgiven, not completely. But it was a start. 

The decoction was bright, lively green where the vile was struck by fire light and Geralt slid his arm behind trembling shoulders to tug Jaskier flush to his chest, bracing him when the shift prompted a fit of unproductive coughing. The wheeze on his breath was alarming. The damp of that cell had crept into his lungs and made itself at home. Jaskier keened, a hard noise to hear, and Geralt frowned, tipping the mixture past his lips and holding his head in place when he shied away. 

"Be still, lark, this will help." He stroked his hair, watched him swallow with difficulty. "Ciri, my bags." Geralt fished for supplies, laying them out on the blankets before tucking the leather behind his back to prop him upright. He pointed to each vial and herb, explaining what each was used for to his young charge before asking her to make a fever and pain reducing tea. After sterilizing both needle and thread in boiling water, Geralt set his hand to the task of stitching and bandaging. He made them neat. Small. Hoping to reduce the scars they would leave behind. Jaskier didn't deserve anymore of those. Especially ones caused by him. Another dose of shepherd's purse with a few mouthfuls of tea and there was nothing left but to wait. 

It was early morning when Geralt met a pair of blue eyes, darkened with pain and barely aware, already rolling back, and he got a palm behind his neck to lever him forward before he was carried off again by the work of healing.

"Drink this down, songbird. That’s it,” he praised gruffly, meeting his clouded gaze, holding it, and this time there was no recognition. There'd been little change, Jaskier was stubborn after all, aside from Ciri curling up at his side to keep him warm. 

"Set me in high or yet in low degree...in longest night or in shortest day, in clearest sky or where clouds thickest be." Jaskier paused, blinking slow and panting from his enigmatic rhyming. 

"What are you on about, sparrow?" Geralt murmured to himself, knowing he would receive no answers that made any sense from the bard as he was now. He cupped one ear and stroked his thumb over the bone of his cheek, smiling, though he'd never admit it, at the soft sigh, how he relaxed into his palm. With one last susurration Jaskier's fluttering lashes met.

"His will I be, and only with this thought, content myself although my chance be nought."

Geralt didn't mean to fall asleep and found himself catapulted into wakefulness by Jaskier coughing and choking. Ciri shook his arm, real fear in her eyes and too scared to speak. The witcher took him up in his arms, pulling him close to his chest and resting Jaskier's chin on his shoulder and holding him tight, close, enough to feel each failed attempt, to feel him weakening. To hear him drowning. To hear nothing at all. 

"Slow little sparrow, slow now. Breathe with me." Exaggerated, he inhaled, lifting Jaskier's body with his own. "Come now. Stop being dramatic." Again.

"Geralt!"

"Fuck. It's alright. Jaskier, my lark." Demanding. Desperate. Finally, stuttering, it inspired another bout that left him exhausted, Geralt could feel how weary he was, slumped boneless against him and eerily silent. But he was gulping for every hard won lungful and that was certainly better than before. "There. Good." At one point Geralt's hand found its way into Jaskier's dull brown hair, the other on his back with Ciri's. "Gods." He met her wide look and sighed. "He's always been such trouble." 

Geralt watched Ciri coax sips of broth and tea into the woozy bard from a distance as he spent a calming moment with Roach. She was stalwart and unchanged and the witcher's confidant. The longer he spent caring for Jaskier, the guiltier he became and as it filled him up it left room for little else. He felt uncharacteristically nervous and wound. But he'd put off the inevitable already and they had no choice.

"We have to move. We've lingered days too long." Geralt stepped in to examine the worst wounds, rewrapping each gingerly and pausing long to assess the bruising on his side. The decoction seemed to have worked and the deep, dangerous purple was fading into green and yellow hues at the edges. It was a risk to put him on Roach but the soldiers might be roaming and they couldn't stay here any longer. Three riders would tax any horse, and Geralt had no choice but to ask it of her. As he took time to pack up camp, he could hear the girl speaking softly, kindly.

"It's bitter, I know. But you'll feel better and I've never lied to you." Jaskier pulled a face, but complied, the fragment of awareness fixated on the sun reflected off Ciri's flaxen hair. The potion was as strong as he dared give him, both to help sleep and ease the pain for the ride ahead. 

The witcher lifted Ciri up first behind the saddle, glancing next to him where Jaskier stood wavering in Geralt's oversized clothes, feet still bare, and ready to catch him if he started going down. It was harder to lift Jaskier. He'd done it, of course, the man weighed nothing now, but the pressure exerted on his injuries made him cry out.

"S'stop...hhh'hurts." The loudest since his collapse at the start of this mess and it tore through his heart.

"I know. I know, songbird." Clumsy, he cajoled, and Ciri held him in place while Geralt mounted in front of them.

Roach stepped lightly, her gait smooth as if she knew Jaskier needed her to be as gentle as she could be. A fall now could restart whatever bleeding had happened before and Geralt wrapped Jaskier's arms around his waist so he could hold him there. He was so, so warm, limp and curled against his back with his face buried in one shoulder, whimpering softly until the potion finally took full effect and tugged him under its tide.

He was floating on a current.

Rocked back and forth, back and forth, and the more aware he became, the worse it all was. 

He was so cold, so hot at the same time and Jaskier felt barely held together, like the seams of his whole self were stretched and strained. Something was very wrong. It was hard to breathe, like a weight sat upon the very center of his chest, crushing the air out of him and he was too tired to move it. A familiar voice spoke unfamiliar things and he couldn't make sense of it and he wanted to, really, really wanted to because if he disappointed him again he was sure it would be the last time. He would leave him here. Here in this dark place where he was burning alive and freezing to death and every touch was agony and he couldn't, _couldn't_ spend one more minute wherever he was and he just needed it to stop before. 

Before.

"Geralt, stop. Something's wrong, he's not breathing." Swiftly, he tugged on the reins, sweeping both Jaskier and himself from Roach's back, pressing his ear against a too still chest to make out the slow beat of his heart below shirt, skin, bone.

"Jaskier." The panic that lurked in the corner of his mind for days became too powerful and he couldn't keep it out of his voice. "Come on, Jaskier." Geralt shook him hard but he wouldn't wake. Not even when Geralt pressed a hand to his broken side. The bard's slight form was silent. Lips tinged blue. Body burning like a brand.

Time running out far, far, far too quickly. 

"Geralt!" Ciri was frantic, tugging at his arm. "Geralt, _please!_ " There was little he could do and his mind was blank as he palmed Jaskier's bangs roughly away from his brow, over and over. 

A river.

They'd passed a river. Freezing. 

There were stories about this very thing. Scooping him up, so limp, so small, so unmoving, and ran full tilt, not stopping until he and the bard in his arms were almost submerged and he lowered him below the surface for a split second then held him close, yellow eyes wide and fixated.

The shock of cold made Jaskier convulse and Geralt thought he'd killed him right there until a ragged, open mouthed, drowned gasping, followed by another, rang out into the forest and his eyes flew open and he finally, _finally_ saw him. Immediately, he began babbling nigh incoherently, words tripping over themselves on his tongue, tumbling faster than Geralt could catch. Voice slipping out and in like the waves on the blasted coast he once suggested they visit.

"You foun' me. Knew you wouldn't leave me in that place. So dark. You foun' me, you foun'me…" the bard still burned brightly, hot and fast, and Geralt worried there'd be nothing left at the end of it. He held him together even as Jaskier tangled shaking fingers into his shirt. Clumsy, Geralt thumbed at the torrent of tears, but didn't correct him. "Tol'em nothin'...p'promise, I promise, I promise. Please don't lea'me here, please, please, G'ralt." The witcher's name on Jaskier's lips was welcome, something he never thought he'd hear again and it stopped up his throat almost completely. Geralt tucked his face into his neck and Jaskier clung unabashedly, back heaving between harsh breaths and rough coughing. He'd choke himself at this rate and they'd be back where they started. He caught a glimpse of Ciri on the bank.

"Hush now little lark. Hush." It became so clear then, the fear his bard had harbored. He'd hidden his hope that someone would spread word. The White Wolf's songbird caged and awaiting valiant rescue. But he hadn't heard. Couldn't tell you even now if he would've come.

Knowing it was a trap. 

Knowing he needed to be there for Ciri.

What was one man's life in the face of all that?

Soft, gentle, he stroked his hair, the back of his neck, all the while mumbling gruff platitudes as the bard continued to cry and cry, eventually exhausting himself and slipping into uneasy sleep.

Water streamed from the both of them and Geralt praised Ciri's forethought in making a fire. Jaskier needed to be warm and dry soon and plied with more medicines. 

Dinner was a silent affair and Geralt had only released Jaskier long enough to get him dry and cocooned in his warmest cloak; big enough to cover him completely. The bard pressed himself as close as possible, mumbling deliriously in between fits of breathless coughing and it was Ciri that put a voice to what they were both thinking. 

"He needs a healer."


	4. Chapter 4

"Easy, little lark. Hush." It was easier now, to soothe, to comfort when the cold truth of it all was keeping him alive long enough to find help. Geralt swiped away the flecks of blood dotting pale lips. "Just a bad spell, Jaskier." Fluttering lashes, lids all the hues in a butterfly's wing, parted to reveal a flash of glassy blue. A ragged intake of breath prompted Geralt to hold him that much tighter. The bard had always been thin but the torment and fever diminished him such that the line of his ribs were like rungs in a ladder. 

"Do you think we'll find them?" The witcher watched him slip under, paused a moment before answering, and felt Ciri lean against his broad back. The real danger of losing Jaskier meant they had to venture towards villages and speak to travelers on the road instead of avoiding them. The answer was always the same. Mages were few and far between now after the conflict but there were rumors of a pair licking their wounds to the north. He tucked the traveling cloak from where it slipped back up to his chin. Stroked his head and frowned at the tight wheeze in his chest. The struggle it was to breathe.

"I do." Whether his songbird would be with them was another issue entirely. 

They rode night and day at a steady pace, pushing Roach almost to her limit before breaking for a quick rest and a bite to eat. Always headed north, they inquired only when they had to in order to make sure they were on the right track. The air grew colder and the skies darker and Geralt tucked Jaskier as close to the warmth of his body as he could.

Jaskier didn't wake anymore having sunk too deep to be reached and Geralt urged Roach on faster, almost to a gallop, knowing that Ciri would hold tight. When the grey clouds above them finally broke open and the witcher was forced to slow lest his horse break her leg, he cursed. It was a deluge and all of them were soaked through in minutes.

"We're close, I think." Ciri had to shout to be heard over the wind. "We have to be!" Geralt nodded, listening hard for a rhythm amidst the hammering rain. Jaskier's skin was so pallid it was to be translucent and his form so stiff from cold that he barely drew breath. He turned Roach in a complete circle, sharp eyes searching through the storm. Gods, there was nothing else but this. 

Please. 

Please.

_Please._

"There! Look there! Lamp light!" This was it. It had to be it because there was no other hope. 

"Go, Roach. Go." Before she had even stopped Geralt was leaping from the saddle, holding Jaskier like he would a child and kicking the door so hard he had half a mind to knock it down. When, an eternity later, it flew open, terrified yellow met familiar, irritated violet. _"Help him."_

When Ciri came in from putting up Roach and rubbing her down, Jaskier was laid out on the rough-hewn wooden table, two women at either side, with Geralt at his head. The powerful pair had their hands on the bard, his chest, power and elder speech flowing from the both of them in tandem. Ciri approached, too small to be of any consequence compared to current events, and took up Jaskier's frozen hand. 

The women looked immeasurably tired, one with long raven hair and piercing eyes the color of distant storms, the other with short-cropped auburn locks and a pinched look on her youthful face. Concentration and concern.

There was a shift in the energy of the room accompanied by the smell of ozone. A crack like thunder echoed from the sky and so deep into her bones her ears rang.

Then nothing. A vacuum of silence before the air seemed to rush back into the small room.

Ciri couldn't tell if he was alive or dead; Jaskier was still bruised, still wounded, and completely unmoving. 

"Geralt?"

"Just wait. Wait." The sorceress' panted, knuckling the sweat from their cheeks, staring, unblinking. 

"Yen? Triss?" The witcher looked to each of them a bit frantically for answers, hands hovering over Jaskier's shoulders, as if touching him now would undo whatever they had done.

"Wait." Triss chastised, sweeping her hand through Jaskier's fringe. "My darling boy. Whatever did they do to you?" At her touch, blue eyes blown so wide with pupil they were nearly black, flew open at the same time he took in a heaving lungful of air. No wheeze, no cough. The bard looked around at the many faces, perplexed, reeling, but breathing deep and easy. Reflexively, he gripped Ciri's hand, trembling but stronger than before. 

"Yen?" The confusion hung thick in his whisper and just as quickly as he woke, he was gone again.

"It's done." Yennefer sighed heavily, shoulders sloping in exhaustion as she slumped into a chair to lean on one elbow and test Jaskier's cheek for fever. "He should be past the worst of it now." 

"Come with me, Geralt." Triss motioned for him to gather the bard up and follow. Ciri could hear their murmuring as they made their way further into the small cottage. 

"The Child Surprise, I presume." The mage, Yen, both Geralt and Jaskier named her, stood and made her way to a shelf containing all manner of bottles and vials. 

"Cirilla." 

"Hm?"

"My name is Cirilla."

"Fair enough." Slender fingers began sorting through potions. "Go help Triss settle our lark, will you? And send that great oaf back to me."

"He's sleeping." Geralt nearly collapsed to the chair, holding his head in his hands and tugging at the lank silver strands between his fingers. "Yen. I. Thank you." She chose not to examine the dampness in his voice instead placing the jars down in front of him, and the muted clink of glass against wood had him looking up at her.

"A fortifying draught, this one is for fever...hm, pain. Sleep." Her look was challenging. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." And the truth in it cut like a blade so sharp you'd never know you were wounded until you bled out. Yennefer didn't press having learned long ago it would lead nowhere. 

"He'll need to take these, tonight, it can't wait. They will be stronger now, augmented by the chaos still in his blood." She turned to put back the potions she'd decided against when Geralt's accusation rang like a bell through the steady hum of rain.

"You said it was done." She rounded on him, lavender eyes flashing with the lightning outside the window.

"Magic comes at a cost!" Yen's voice was rough, the battle far too close and looming closer in her mind. "Neither of us can pay the full toll right now. Not after Sodden. Nor can your little sparrow, not after whatever happened to him." When Geralt made to speak, she cut him off. "He needs rest. Food. Time to regain all he's lost."

"Yen--"

"And I suppose now that you've delivered him here, you'll be on your way?" Gods, she was tired. "With your precious Child Surprise."

"No, that's--"

"We'll look after him. Some of us enjoy his wit and company." Wry, but said with bitter bite and it was clear he had more amends to make. "Well?"

"No, I intend to stay. To see him whole." 

"He told me you "said some things."" At his open mouthed surprise, she laughed and it was musical, a balm. "What? We can't be friends? I'm going to bed. See that he gets these. Tonight."

"He's still very ill." Triss moved the cold cloth over Jaskier's face, down his neck, carefully as though he could break. "He's been treated quite roughly, our songbird." She wrung the cloth and smoothed it over his forehead. "Not going to ask how we know each other?" Softly, she chuckled before turning serious viridian eyes on the witcher. "Be gentle with him?"

"Hm." She said nothing more, but slipped silently by to disappear into the dark. Geralt placed the bottles on the side table and the low lamplight sent liquid color spilling across the wood grain. He took a moment to breathe. In. Out. Centering himself in the quiet where there was no one awake but him. Ciri was fast asleep curled up on the other side of the bed. She'd been pushed to the limit and taken it all in stride. And now they could rest, if only for a little while. 

"Jaskier." The heat of that blazing fever had abated some but his chest was blessedly clear and the quiet even breaths made him feel lightheaded with relief. "Jaskier," he picked one thin hand and held it between both palms, rubbed gently, firmly. "Wake up, little sparrow." 

He felt so heavy, like every limb was weighed down with stones. But he was laid out on something soft, wrapped with warmth and someone was calling his name. The voice was familiar and it took him so long, too long to place it and he tried so hard to open his eyes, to obey what the witcher was demanding but failed. Failed. He was always letting Geralt down.

"G'rlt..?" Mumbling, tongue heavy and clumsy. 

Always getting in the way. 

"Wh'where'm, 'm'I?" He wasn't well, that much he could figure out. And if he wasn't able to follow, he'd be left here, wherever here was. "Don' lea'me here, don'." 

What did he have to offer? Why beg? When the answer would never change? He could feel the tears begin to sting and it made the panic grow worse. He was weak enough already in the eyes of the witcher, to succumb to emotion now would end it all.

"Pl's." 

"I won't, Jaskier." Large hands tightened around his. He would. He'd leave him here like he'd left him before. Through the drumming in his skull he could make out Geralt still speaking nonsense. "We'll leave here together and take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. You can teach her your awful screeching. But I need you to drink these down." Why was he being so kind? The tears came and with them hot embarrassment and he pressed his lips tightly together, trying to stop it, but succeeded only in pathetic, ugly keening. He was so tired and felt so ill. Sleep. He just wanted to sleep.

"Please…"

"No, no, Jaskier, look at me. Open your eyes." Geralt lifted him, shifted into the bed to hold him, so careful with every aching place. This was a dream. A dream. A dream. Nobody-- "Look here, songbird." A cool palm cupped his jaw and it was soothing against the heat in him. The moisture on his face was swept away. "Will you listen now, songbird?" Jaskier's breath hitched and he forced heavy lids apart, blinking slow until Geralt's face came into focus. He must be delirious because he would swear he saw worry there in the crease between his brows. "There you are." 

"Where'm…?" Trying to glance around the dim room sent everything spinning wildly and he closed his eyes against it until his stomach settled. Something bitter flooded his tongue and he must have pulled a face because Geralt chuffed a bit before offering another.

"Good, Jaskier." He spoke low and gentle while he poured the potions down his throat. "This one is for sleep. Deep and dreamless." Disconnected, the bard sank into the arms around him, fingers tangling into the rough fabric of Geralt's shirt. 

"Geralt?" The last of him went into it, whispery and only audible to a witcher's sensitive hearing. 

"I'll be here."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer is soft with Jaskier because she is. And I love them.

Pale morning dawn crept its way slow and soft across Jaskier's sleeping face, illuminating his resting in light the color of winter wheat and limned his dark hair in a halo of gold. The bard was so deep beneath the dreamless tide even Ciri's shifting at his side didn't rouse him. Geralt watched, hummed low at his drowsy sigh, the press of his cheek against his collarbone and curl of lax fingers still tangled in his shirt. It seemed an eternity since morning arrived this peacefully though it hadn't been but days since Jaskier lead the way to escape. 

Ciri sat up rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand, blinking at Geralt and looking between the two of them. The witcher held a finger to his lips, smiling just a little at her messy platinum locks and she smiled back. Triss bustled in, a tray of potions, salves, and bandages loaded to the brim. 

"What's all that for?" Ciri wondered and Geralt heard the bristling challenge in her voice. The mage laughed lightly and bade Geralt release their charge. 

"Mostly to ease his pain and lower the fever. This," she gestured to the small jar, "is to prevent infection." Her eyes grew soft and she stroked Jaskier's slack face gently. "The last he needs is poison in his blood." She rolled up her sleeves and Geralt took notice of faint burn scars, no doubt faded with magic. From Sodden. He didn't ask. 

"I want to learn." The witcher felt pride welling in his chest as she copied Triss' movements. He watched as together they stripped away the stained bandages and rewrapped him in soft, white linen. Lifted him so he wouldn't choke on the decoctions and tinctures and teas. Ciri was good with him. Protective and calm and kind. Triss packed up the tray. 

"Let's get something to eat, shall we?" 

The next few days fell into a soft routine of care and recovery for all of them. The haunted look faded from Ciri's face and she soaked up the sunlight in the small garden at the back of the cottage during the time she wasn't tending to Jaskier or begging lessons from Geralt, Yennifer, and Triss. 

Jaskier dreamed frequently once they'd eased him off the potions for sleep, shouting words and fragments of demands, commands, begging, pleading that Geralt wished he couldn't hear. 

"In time, he'll rest peacefully. When it's not so close." Yennifer's reassurances were anything but. He would be silent, because Geralt wouldn't wish to know his suffering. He would hide it behind his rambling, his song, he would deflect because he believed the witcher would find it pathetic. Jaskier had already learned this from experience. There would be no reason for him to expect change now. 

But Geralt was at his side in every free moment, coaxing broth and medicines into him with a patience he'd never shown him before. Holding him, bathing his face, when his temperature spiked during the night and he woke weeping silently and trembling in fear. And finally the day came that Jaskier looked up at him with clouded strawflower eyes, whispering his name in quiet confusion. 

Steam wafted gently from the water's surface and Geralt knew it would do Jaskier good to feel clean again, to bathe away the sweat and smell of fever and sickness. There was so little strength in him Geralt served as his walking staff, stripping him gently out of his borrowed sleep clothes and lowering him into the tub. 

Jaskier luxuriated in the heat chasing away the chill deep seated in hollows of his bones, basking in the relaxing of sore muscles and lulled into a doze while Geralt cleansed his hair with firm scrubbing fingers. A broad palm shielded sensitive eyes from a soapy rinse and Jaskier's chest grew tight at the witcher's careful movements. 

"M'sorry." Mumbled, quiet, too tired to keep awake for much longer than a handful of minutes at a time. Geralt looked away, shamed that Jaskier felt the need to apologize for his care of him and grateful that he couldn't see for he knew the bard wouldn't understand. "Always so much trouble, I know. I'm sorry for that." 

"It's." What could he say that wouldn't come out sounding of a lie? When every action up until this moment pointed to Jaskier's assumptions. "It's nothing, Jaskier." Gruff. Clumsy. Wholly unsatisfying. But the bard grinned all the same, if it was just a shadow of its former luminescence. "You're healing well." Indeed, the dangerous painting spread across his flank had faded even more, the dull colors of autumn standing out on a pale canvas. The careful stitching, like ink from Jaskier's quill scrawled across pages in his journal, was clean and smooth where it held him together. 

"Mmm." As the bard succumbed to sleep's beckoning fingers his body slipped lower in the water and rather than see him drowned, Geralt lifted him, dried him, worked salves into abused skin and dressed him in light, clean clothes before tucking him in. He sat there, at his bedside, with fingers digging so hard into his thighs his knuckles were white. Ciri wandered into the room then, tipping sideways enough to lean on Geralt's broad shoulder and after a moment he spoke. "He believes himself a nuisance." He said nothing more, and Ciri wrapped her arms around him in an embrace, not fully understanding everything, but knowing enough about friendship to know her witcher was struggling. "When have I told him anything but?" And she had no answer. 

He woke slow, mindful of the ache in his chest and the way his limbs felt strung together with frayed lengths of twine. Jaskier remembered very little of however long he'd missed. Soft voices and careful touch making up the most of it. As far as he was concerned, he'd collapsed in the pine needles and woken up here. Wherever here was. 

"Hurts." Complaining aloud to no one in particular, Jaskier wanted nothing more than to answer the seductive siren song beckoning him to return to sleep. 

"I can fetch another draught." He jumped, groaned when aftershocks sang along every nerve, and glanced in the direction of the voice. 

"Princess." In a chair beside him. 

"Ciri."

"Ah, of course, Geralt's Child Surprise."

"Triss said as soon as you wake, you're to eat. I'll get you something."

"I assure you, I'm quite fine." 

"'He looks like a dirty sack of bones.'" Ciri recited this smugly. "Yen said that." Jaskier chuckled, pressing a hand to his face to hide the smile there. 

"Yes, that does sound like her." And conceded his defeat. "I'll have your best, fair lady lion!" When she brought him the bowl of broth, Triss and Yen followed after. They poked, prodded, examined and huffed over every inch of him and all Ciri did was giggle at his embarrassment, the traitor. But then they sat and talked and filled him in on all he'd missed, all the while being reminded by the princess to eat. Eat, Jaskier. When the trio left to take the dishes and let him rest, Jaskier called out shyly, reaching out, only to pull back. 

"Yen?" 

"Yes, darling dove?" She sat beside him, stroked the back of his head. 

"Was I. Was I mistaken?" He glanced down at his hands, a stranger's hands for all they were so thin. "I could have sworn I saw Geralt."

"Not mistaken. He's about here, somewhere brooding, I suspect." She drew his chin up with a light touch. "He near broke our door down to save you, songbird." Jaskier wasn't quite sure what to do with that knowledge yet. "Don't fret, lark." She tucked him comfortably in. "He'll come around."

The Lion Cub of Cintra took it upon herself to keep Jaskier company and make quite sure he didn't tax himself. The bard weathered it in stoic amusement, obeying her every order to the letter and enjoying her quiet company and conversations about her home. He was good for her, and she for him and when Ciri was upset, overwhelmed by the loss already experienced in her young life, would recite new lyrics he was thinking of or silly rhymes to make her laugh. 

But no singing. The breaks in his ribs had yet to heal enough for a full breath, let alone a ballad. It would be weeks yet before he'd be well enough. 

Geralt watched them closely and tried to sift through the feelings of jealousy and guilt, unused to this wanting. He was sitting with Yen and Triss at the table, glancing through the window to catch Ciri draping a blanket over Jaskier as he dozed in the shifting dappled shadow of the garden's leaves. Rousing, lashes fluttering, he gave the child a small smile, and though Geralt couldn't hear what he spoke, she reacted with pleasure and flopped down in the grass beside him to read aloud. 

"You could join them." Yennefer sipped from her cup and glanced at him sidelong. Triss just laughed. 

"Hmm." 

Jaskier was avoiding him. 

A spectacular feat considering his recent, ongoing recovery and their shared living quarters. But he was clever, and knew how to use words in such a way that you didn't know he'd excused himself until he wasn't there. Many times he escaped in much needed sleep, and none of the women would let that be disturbed. The longer he was allowed to hide away and continue his childishness, the longer it would take for things to go back to the way they were supposed to be. 

Jaskier was avoiding him. 

Hobbling as swiftly away as he was able whenever he saw the sulking brute so much as turn toward him. The ladies of the house let him hide and turned Geralt away when he'd retire to the small room for some peace. It was suffocating. He didn't know what Geralt wanted from him and Jaskier himself was still angry. Frustrated. Confused. At the witcher's seemingly subtle shift in attitude towards him. 

For as hulking a beast as he was, Geralt could be very quiet on his feet. 

"I shouldn't--"

"Saints alive, fool witcher!" Jaskier whipped around to face him, clutched his chest, his injured side, recovering from the surprise attack before turning to leave. 

"I shouldn't. I shouldn't have said those things." So familiar in his rough way behind him. "On the mountain." Because, of course, it needed clarification. It stopped Jaskier in his tracks, and he chuffed in bitter laughter. 

"That's an understatement." 

"Hmm."

"Why?" Jaskier crossed his arms, defensive and wary. "Why now? Because I'm hurt? I don't want your pity, Geralt." The scent of adrenaline, sharp and acrid, rose with the bard's voice. 

No fear. Never fear. 

"It's not, I. Shouldn't have been so angry with you." Far from providing relief, Geralt stiffened when he saw Jaskier's face grow dark. "You need to speak with me."

"I don't."

"You will stop this."

"I won't!" 

"What more do you want from me? I've admitted I said the wrong things!" Voice raised in a growl to match Jaskier's rising pitch. 

"But you don't know why you shouldn't have!" 

"What does that matter?" He roared out (it wasn't supposed to be this way, why was he always angry with the bard), so loud the fragile panes shook in the windows. "I've apologized!" 

"You haven't!" Jaskier's whole body was so tense it was sore, his ribs screaming in his side and if he'd felt slightly more able, would have tackled the witcher to the ground right then. "You don't know what it is to apologize!" Shaking, he was trembling top to toes in anger, frustration, want, pain. "You want things to go back to the way it was before. To stop feeling guilty. To put this!" And he gestured to the whole of him, "behind us! To pretend that you. The _White. Wolf._ " He spat the epithet like a curse. "Didn't leave an acquaintance to rot alone in the dark!" Geralt snarled and Jaskier sneered, eyes wild and piercing and cold. 

"Stop these dramatics! You know you are more--" 

Jaskier turned from Geralt and his stubborn insistence, fists clenched and wanting nothing more than to punch him in his stupid, sculpted, fucking chin. 

He was _tired._

Tired of being left behind when he became inconvenient. 

Tired of being pushed aside in favor of strangers. 

Tired of Geralt choosing everyone and everything over him. 

Tired of. 

Tired of not being a choice to begin with.

Tired. 

_What pleases me?_

"You don't get to blame and abandon me and then demand I return to your side."

The anger was gone and now he was so empty, a void, used up, nothing and nobody. Errant flecks and bits of bones wrapped up in a tattered skin.

_If life could give me one blessing._

"One day, Geralt, you won't walk through the world as if you're the only one holding it up." 

"I don't--" 

"And I'll be there. For a while longer, at least. When you've made the room. When you're ready to let someone in. To let a _friend_ in." He grunted low; he hurt, and sagged, pressing a hand to his most injured places, leaning heavily on Ciri when she flew to his side. "M'all right, little lion." He grit his teeth in a pale imitation of a grin. "Jus' need a'a bit of a kip." 

The cottage was quiet as both parties licked their wounds. 

"Well now." Yen joined him on the bench outside, sitting delicately, every bit as beautiful as the last time he'd seen her. Caught in time. "That could have gone better." 

"I don't know why he's being so difficult." Geralt snarled. "I couldn't beat him off with a stick before and now."

"He's hurt." 

"I know that."

"I don't think you do, Geralt." She lay one slender hand over his. "The physical wounds aren't near as deep as the one you've dealt." 

"Hmm."

"Don't think we haven't seen you trying, in your own way." She lifted her face to the waning light, drawing her shawl closer about her shoulders. "But his memory is unreliable. I don't need to tell you he was in a bad way. It's to be expected."

"It wasn't enough." Melancholy, Geralt hung his head. He was better with action. Though he supposed his actions had landed them all here in the first place. 

"Saving his life doesn't mean he owes you forgiveness." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Think on it." She rose to leave, flicking his forehead. "You've got enough brains in your thick skull to figure this out."

He went looking for his charge after that, finding her tucked up with Jaskier in bed, curled against him protectively as they both slept. It should have warmed him, to see those he cared about safe and sound and comfortable but it was soured with the knowledge that what Ciri was protecting Jaskier from, was him. 

"Our little lion told me you're feeling unwell."

"Head's'pounding." Strung together on a trembling breath. Yennefer set the mug of stew aside when the smell caused his face to pale, tucking up beneath the quilt and lifting his shoulders into her lap. "Yen…" At his whimpering, the mage swept her hand over his brow, leaving it there when he sighed. 

"No wonder, songbird." Gently, she stroked his dark hair. "I'll have to yell at that witless fool for stressing you so." He raised red rimmed eyes to hers. 

"Wish I had chaos to keep me young 'n beautiful." She laughed, softly, returned the wan smile on his lips. 

"You're delirious with fever. You don't know what you're saying." Always with her fingers moving calmly over his bangs, down his cheek, along his jaw, his neck. Until the stiffness in him relaxed and his next words were slurred gently from exhaustion. 

"A bard of my pedigree always speaks true."

"Mongrel. You're as handsome as the first day I insulted you."

"Not much of a compliment." So lightly, Yennefer passed fingertips over barely parted eyelids to close them. 

"Never said it was meant to be one." 

"M'tired, Yen." 

"Then sleep. bardling"

The hush settled over the cottage was calm, somehow different than before, and Geralt at last felt that he knew what to do. What Jaskier needed from him and he took a deep breath before entering the dimly lit room, so low to avoid aggravating the bard's aching head. Ciri was there, dabbing sweat gently away and humming one song or another, and looked up at the witcher when he came to stand beside her. 

"You won't shout at him." Geralt shook his head. "You won't upset him." 

"I won't." He held his hand out for the cloth. "I promise." she fixed him with a searching stare, the lamp light reflecting in her eyes was protective in a predatory way; his fierce Child Surprise. He endured her examination of him with the patience he should have shown Jaskier until she leaned down to whisper something in the bard's ear. He didn't listen. 

"Be kind, Geralt." She pressed the cloth into his hand and used it to rise, hugging him quickly and skipping off to parts unknown while he took her place and swiped a cool swathe down Jaskier's face and neck. 

"Taking advantage of my inability to shout at you right now." The witcher re-wrung the compress, meeting and holding his half lidded gaze. 

"I might not be able to get a word in, otherwise." Gently, a hopeful quirk of his lips and Jaskier sighed heavily under the refreshed cold compress, eyes rolling back in relief. 

"Go on, then." Geralt took in the sight of him, the flush painted over his nose and pale, gaunt cheeks, eyes so bruised beneath by exhaustion it looked painful. 

"I hurt you."

"Hmf."

"Not just once. Many times. By not being truthful about what you. What you and your company mean to me." Jaskier pinned him as a hawk would its prey with sharp sky blue, fumbling to sit upright, aided by a trembling grip on Geralt's forearm. "I lashed out at you out of convenience. And maybe part of me believed those words at the time. But they were never true. Even then." The bard swung his legs over the bedside, that cornflower color boring into contrite, liquid gold. Never had Geralt felt this exposed and his nerve was failing him. "I shouldn't have blamed you, Jaskier, for my own poor choices. I am sorry." Time passed with the steady beat of Jaskier's heart and Geralt swallowed hard, bearing the weight of his scrutiny. 

_"Oh."_ He laughed softly, a true grin spreading slowly from ear to ear. Gently the bard fell into him, wrapped him up, and the witcher returned it tentatively. "That's all I've been waiting to hear."

"Yen, I'm all right. " Musical with adoration, Jaskier's voice became louder as the pair approached, Yennefer fussing with his cloak and tucking it around him. "I promise. I'm warm and well." He stopped at Roach's side, held both her hands in his own and kissed her cheeks. "We'll see each other again. Of that I've no doubt." She hugged him, released him to step back enough to let Geralt help him into the saddle. He winked down at Ciri from his new height, whispering loudly. "This is how you know he's really sorry."

"Jaskier." The growl of warning bore no heat and the bard only laughed. Real and true and Triss echoed it, embracing Ciri tightly and pulling back to look her seriously in the eye. 

"I'll come visit you in Kaer Morhen, okay? Protect all the witchers from you." Geralt thought his Child Surprise looked too excited for that. He felt warmth blossom in his chest all the same as he lifted her to sit in front of Jaskier, who was doing nothing to hide his amusement. 

"It's up to you my fair young lion." Jaskier caught Geralt's eye and smiled softly, looking ahead when Ciri's voice rang clear. 

"Oh, when a humble bard!" 

And all was right in the world.


End file.
